


From the day of the universe's creation and on

by Prometeo (42gabi24)



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Blood and Injury, Eating Disorders, Gen, Time Travel, TommyInnit-centric (Video Blogging RPF)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:06:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29755194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/42gabi24/pseuds/Prometeo
Summary: A bunch of miscellaneous One-shots of different AU's, mostly Tommy-Centric.Everyone can use, expand upon and/or do their own take on every single AU in here since I post them to inspire writers of the community. If you plan to write anything based by my AUs, please tell me, I would be more than happy to read your works :)Further information of each AU will be in the summary, and everyone is free to talk to me or ask me anything about it on my tumblr (link in my Dashboard) or directly in the comments.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	From the day of the universe's creation and on

**Author's Note:**

> My own take on the Time-Travel AU. This chapter is unfinished because I planned to do an entire story, but I think you can get the gist of what's happening. Warning, it's unedited and unpolished.
> 
> Summary:
> 
> Tommy and Tubbo are sent back during the election. Chaos ensues. Wilbur and Fundy are worried.

Tommy had a terrible feeling about this. A terrible, terrible feeling settling deep at the bottom of his gut like a heavy rock. Schlatt looked too happy, Wilbur too indifferent- it wasn’t supposed to go like this. He surveyed the scene unfolding around him, everyone was focused on the new President of L’Manburg who was preparing his inauguration speech without a care in the world. 

Wilbur pulled at his shoulder.

“Tommy, come on.”

He swallowed his protests. They tasted bitter. It wasn't fair, really. All those years of fighting, of bleeding, and fearing for their lives was for nothing. A whiny voice deep down cried about how they won the war, and how Lmanburg was theirs.

He left the podium with heavy steps, mind sluggish, and thoughts too disorganized to make sense. They were supposed to win, L’Manburg was theirs by right. Why did Wilbur even hold an election? It didn’t matter anyway. These people were going to cheer no matter who was on the stage- they didn’t really care who won and how they did it. They didn’t even care if there was a President or not. Ungrateful the lot of them.

(He would do it all over again for them.)

Tommy rolled his shoulders, feeling them oddly stiff. He paused on top of the stairs that led to the square, he didn't know if perspective was playing tricks on him but the stairs looked oddly steep from his position.

He climbed down each step slowly, unsteadily, joints unwilling to cooperate with the rest of his body. A persistent ache began to build at the back of his head- worse than any headache he's felt before. He rubbed the bridge of his nose in the hopes of alleviating the mounting pain behind his eyes. Was this shock? Tommy certainly felt shocked.

His ears were ringing. His vision blurred.

He staggered, foot slipping on the wooden surface of the stairs. His hands twitched uselessly by his sides as he tried to catch himself against the wall. He landed with a gut-wrenching crack, his ankle at an awkward position under him. He didn’t feel any pain besides the one in his pounding skull though, so he tried to get back up despite his unresponsive limbs.

“Tommy?”

He scrunched his face at Wilbur’s sudden shout of alarm, unable to hold back his groan. His hands came up his hair, gripping the curly strands with force in the hopes of alleviating some of the building pain. He screwed his eyes shut against the too-bright light of the sunset.

“Tommy, are you okay? Tommy!”

“Wilbur!” His breath hitched as he felt a pair of hands on his shoulders, someone shook him gently. A terrible decision, really. He felt something wet gush from his nose with force, like a broken faucet. 

“Tommy, can you hear me? Oh, gods, he’s bleeding! Someone help him!”

Why was Wilbur shouting so much?

The answer to Tommy's dazed question was an ear-splitting screech, far away in the distance. The voice was familiar. 

_Tubbo?_

“Tommy- Tommy, can you hear me? Stay still, don’t move, yeah?” A warm hand cradled his head, and he suddenly changed positions. Laying horizontally didn’t alleviate the pressure in his head, but the warm hands on his face helped him ground himself. In a moment of clarity, he realized that he was laying in Wilbur’s lap. He clumsily swiped at his mouth trying to clean off the wetness around it, but it was to no avail since more came after it. The pain was unbearable, white-hot rods pierced his skull burrowing deep into his brain matter. Each jostle- each minuscule movement burrowed them deeper without mercy.

“Someone bring me towels! And a potion of healing!"

“That’s too much blood we have to stop the bleeding quickly!”

“Fundy, help me lift him,-” 

Countless voices shouted at each other around him, loud and shrill. Tommy ignored them all. He tried to curl onto himself, hoping that the darkness would sooth the pain, but a pair of strong arms pulled his own away from his body. The touch burned, scorching each of his nerves until he felt like he was being flayed alive. He trashed, eyes still firmly shut. The grip tightened. He shrieked.

“Stay still, kiddo.”

“Dream, hold him tighter!”

“I’m trying he-”

Tommy’s vision went blindingly white, he screamed at the sudden agony. The previous pain solely focused on his head spreading all throughout his body. He felt as if his skull had exploded.

Tommy knew no more.

* * *

Somewhere, a pair of hands rose up in the air triumphantly. 

They lived another day.

* * *

_Voices._

A warm, sweet liquid down his throat. Tommy sputtered, eyes struggling to open. He looked around. A pink bottle. Potion of Healing? He thought that dying was quicker. 

Wilbur? Right there, a face he hadn't seen in such a long time, young as the day he died.

"Wilbur?" He spluttered, spraying some liquid all over. "I thou-ght you were- gone."

Maybe this was the afterlife. 

Tommy tasted sweet blood.

* * *

Wilbur's hands were shaking, despite the tight grip he had on Tommy's. Gods, the skin under his fingertips was so cold. Like a dead man's. Usually, Tommy was warm, his body emitting heat like a furnace. To see him wrapped in so many blankets felt wrong, but still, Wilbur held on tight despite the chill.

He tried to forget the teen's words, haunting, but probably delirious.

'I thought you were gone.'

Gone? Never. Wilbur remained. He's always had.

_'I thought you were gone.'_

_No, forget it. Focus on the important things._

He listened to his surroundings.

“We’ll have to move them out soon,” Dream said. He and George had been discussing what to do just close enough in Wilbur’s hearing range. He pretended he didn’t hear them, playing absentmindedly with Tommy’s curly fringe, pulling it away and then back over his forehead. It reminded him of their childhood, when they spent long summers in the fields without a care of their appearance, letting their hair grow matted to a length that made Phil grimace. Wilbur used to play with those same blond strands, though Tommy usually squirmed and protested at the gesture. Now he lay still- motionless- his chest barely rising with each breath. Wilbur listened.

“We can’t move Tubbo, he’ll die.” George’s voice sounded calm, though he could detect the tell-tale note of settling hysteria in his voice. "Both of them could die- we don't know what's wrong with them!"

“It’s a risk worth taking,” Dream said calmly- rationally- Wilbur hated that tone of voice of his. Like he was the one who had it all figured. He knew that the admin was just as lost as them. “They’ll die anyway if we leave them out in the cold. They need potions, and blood transfusions on a warm bed. Leaving them here is a terrible decision.”

“...Blood transfusions?”

Wilbur snarled. Quietly. Oh Dream, always flaunting the fact that he was clearly not human. Wilbur didn’t want to know what sort of diabolical ritual was a blood transfusion, and he would rather die before letting anyone perform it on Tommy. Maybe it was something that worked on admins, but he knew deep down that it wouldn’t work on real people.

His hands continued to shake.

“Forget it. Hopefully, a pair of good potions will do it.”

“And if they don’t?”

George didn’t really want an answer to that question, did he? Wilbur grit his teeth.

Tommy’s breath hitched, nose clogged with clotting blood. Wilbur adjusted the makeshift pillow he’d made out of his uniform jacket, now useless for anything else given the circumstances. He pressed his hand on his brother’s chest just in case. It rose, slowly and haltingly, but it rose. He breathed out a sigh of relief. Then dread settled in once again, squeezing his momentarily free cheat. 

Wilbur cleared his throat, coughing at the dryness in his mouth. He hadn’t drunk a single drop of water since before the elections that morning, stomach too small to contain anything other than the acid that liked to climb up his throat anyway. He took a deep breath and turned toward the duo some paces behind him.

“Where is Tubbo?” His voice echoed around the empty square. Both men turned their heads in his direction without an ounce of surprise. He scowled at their hesitant expressions. He had the right to know. George fiddled with his glasses in what Wilbur knew to be a nervous gesture.

“With Niki and Fundy, I think Quackity too.” He pointed to a little clearing to the side of the podium. “Right there.”

And indeed there was a small crowd of people surrounding what Wilbur assumed to be Tubbo. Something in his chest unwound at the knowledge that the boy was taken care of for now. He nodded in George’s direction, who returned the gesture with a dismissive hand-wave. As if it were natural to help him.

That’s when Dream made his way towards them. Wilbur’s grip on Tommy’s hand tightened instinctively, ready to fight tooth and nail for his brother’s safety. Usually that’s what happened when Dream chose to show his green arse around the vicinity. His instincts betrayed him this time, however, as Dream lowered himself into an unthreatening crouch. Slowly as if to not spook him like one would do with a cornered animal.

The admin stretched out his palm, bare and friendly- a pacifying gesture. The white porcelain mask shone orange and pink from the sunset behind them. Blank- expressionless. Wilbur avoided looking at it- it triggered terrible memories. He watched the admin's slow movements, waiting for any hint of aggression.

“We need to transport Tommy somewhere warm- a healing tent where a doctor can look at him- will you let us?”

Wilbur involuntarily curled around Tommy’s prone form, but he didn’t smack Dream’s hand as he would have in any other situation. He nodded jerkily after a brief period of hesitation.

Dream turned back to look expectantly at George, who made his way to Tommy’s other side, procuring a stretcher from his inventory. They were going to do it with or without his consent, Wilbur summarized, seeing as George had the thing ready in his inventory. Instead of overthinking it any further, he focused on Tommy, whose breathing seemed to have calmed.

One little game of heave-ho later, and his right-hand was well on his way to somewhere warm and clean. Wilbur didn’t regret putting his trust in these two all that much, but he watched them leave until they were way out of sight, just to be sure.

He headed towards Tubbo, his heart firmly lodged in his throat. Wilbur didn't know what he was going to find when he crossed that square. He was focused on Tommy’s situation, true, but he still heard the blood-curdling scream that had torn itself out of poor Tubbo's throat.

What greeted him, was an eerily similar scene. A bloodbath. Tubbo looked like death was right around the corner, more grey than pale, his lower face and chest bathed in the blood that had gushed out of his nose. There was a single woolen blanket to keep him warm- probably Niki’s doing- and Fundy’s peculiar coat under his head as an impromptu pillow. Quackity was nowhere to be seen, though Wilbur didn't care all that much.

He cleared his throat, startling Nikkin as she carefully wiped out the blood from the teen’s face with a delicate-looking handkerchief. He had also bled from the ears, now that he noticed. George’s caution made sense. Ear bleeding meant that something could be wrong with the brain- sometimes even a respawn couldn't fix the damage in such cases. He kneeled beside Tubbo, noticing that Fundy was looking at him with a wide-eyed look of sheer panic. Wilbur looked down at himself, ‘ah-ing’ at his stained button-up. He looked like a careless butcher.

He reached to ruffle Fundy’s hair, surprised that the teen didn’t pull away from his touch. He rested his clean hand- the one who hadn’t tried to stem Tommy’s bleeding- on his son’s cheek for comfort. Fundy silently leaned in, surprising both of them.

“How is he?” he asked Niki.

She shook her head, lips pursed into a thin, disapproving line.

“Not well, his breathing is irregular. He needs to get warmed up as soon as possible.”

"We can-" Wilbur trailed off, eager to find a solution, but unable to find one. He exhaled through the nose. "We'll have to take him to Tommy- to a healing tent, that is."

Niki looked at him consideringly.

"That could kill him."

"So could the cold ground."

His friend looked away, her brows furrowed in concern. She clutched at the handkerchief in her hands with force, almost squeezing out the blood it had absorbed. Wilbur waited, watching Tubbo's eyes move under his eyelids. At least he wasn't completely gone as Tommy was.

"Fine, call someone to take him away." Niki declared. "I need to keep watch on him for now."

Wilbur typed the message as quickly as his shaking fingers would let him.

* * *

Fundy thought that Tubbo was going to die. He really, really did. Nothing survivable could make someone scream like that, he reasoned. Surely, there isn't that much blood in the human body, he thought.

He sat quietly in his chair as his father paced in front of him. Wilbur was beside himself with worry, walking from one corner of the small healing tent to the other, all the while muttering to himself. Probably trying to understand what the fuck happened at that stage. Not one, but two people had collapsed on spot, bleeding and in terrible pain. War has taught Fundy that there were no coincidences.

His first instinct was to assume sabotage, but there wasn’t poison in the world that would down two healthy teens this quickly, this hard. Something had made his former superiors scream in agony as they bled out and no antidote could have helped them.

The silence was suffocating. He got on his feet, the sudden movement startling Wilbur from his reverie. The older man licked his lips before extending his hands in invitation.

“Fundy, come.” Wilbur’s voice was quiet, hoarse. Completely and unnaturally drained0, lacking the usual steel behind them. Fundy stepped closer, melting in his father’s embrace without a complaint. The emptiness of the tent made him feel very alone.

“Good boy.” A hand ruffled his hair. “I want you to know that… well- it doesn’t matter what you do. I would’ve been proud if you had won. I truly would have passed L’Manburg onto you if it meant that you would be happier.”

The words surprised Fundy, not merely because of their content, but also due to the tone in which there were said- as if Wilbur truly believed them and was already proud beforehand. 

“I- Thank you.” He said at last. Surprisingly enough, something lifted from his chest, a heavy weight that had been there without him noticing. They separated, Wilbur’s hand lingering on his back for a little longer. Fundy exhaled shakily. Wilbur was saying that for a reason.

“Do you think they’ll…?”

“I don’t know.” Was the quiet admission.

“What do you mean you don’t know!” He snapped involuntarily. “You always know everything- you knew that I was going to lose, you knew that you would win- how can you not know-!”

He panted, feeling childish and small. He raked his fingers through his hair in agitation. His father didn’t seem to mind his outburst, merely shaking his head slowly.

“I can’t predict these things Fundy… what happened- I-I can’t predict things like that.” His voice hitched in the middle of the sentence, calloused fingers coming up to wipe away the faint traces of tears. Fundy’s never seen his father cry before, not really. It scared him deeply, he wished Eret were here to calm them down as he always did, but right now Eret would make things worse.

“All right.” He swallowed through the lump that had formed in the middle of his throat. “Should we wait?”

“Yeah.”

His father sat on Fundy’s previous perch on one of the bigger chests in the tent. The younger man looked down at his hands, bloody-nailed and dry-skinned, covered in just as many callouses and chemical burns as Wilbur’s.

“Schlatt won.” He muttered to himself.

“Schlatt won,” Wilbur confirmed, voice dry as a desert.

“You’re not the President.”

“I’m only a founder, yes.”

“He’d still let you contribute right? You have the experience!” 

Wilbur side-eyed him, there was a small indulgent smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Fundy found that he didn’t mind the condescension this time. The older man shook his head.

“No, he wouldn’t. Schlatt has an ego, and right now it’s been raised through the roofs. He won, him and Quackity… There couldn’t have been a worse duo to govern us.” He said with a sigh, hand messing with his hair.

“Why are you so sure?” Fundy asked tentatively. “They could surprise you.”

“No, they won’t.”

"But you don't know that." He insisted. He hoped that his father was wrong.

"I know Schlatt," Wilbur said as if that were enough context to understand his reasoning. Fundy scowled, he was irritated for some reason. Wilbur was acting strangely, but he chose to let it go.

"So… now what?"

"We play the waiting game."

* * *

PREVIEW FOR WHAT WOULD HAVE BEEN CHAPTER 2:

"It's small." Tommy mused.

"Yeah, I forgot how… tiny it was."

They snorted, giggling behind their hands like a pair of schoolgirls. It was a cruel thing to say about their home country, but it was true nonetheless. They've seen private bases that were bigger than Lmanburg alone. Compared to the Hermits' server, Lmanburg looked like an abandoned hovel in the middle of the woods.

It was sad, what Dream had done to his country when he could have let it flourish.

Tubbo shook himself from his musings, unconsciously rubbing at young and untouched flesh that didn't need soothing. He inhaled through the nose, conscious of the tender mucosa now prone to bleeding.


End file.
